


Stripping Down

by Arithanas



Category: The Borgias (2011)
Genre: Fanart, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 16:22:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written anonymously in reply to this prompt left in <a href="http://borgiaskink.livejournal.com/">The Borgias Kink Meme</a></p><p>Cesare/Micheletto, spoilers for 2.10<br/>Micheletto is there to help Cesare rid himself of the Cardinal robes for the last time. Sexy times to reaffirm/celebrate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stripping Down

**Author's Note:**

> Fanart used with [algrenion](http://algrenion.tumblr.com/)'s permission

Micheletto turned in his cot, scratched his chin, let his foot dangle over the edge with gentle idleness. It was a fine night of sleep but early morning came too fast, Micheletto slept well but he wanted to keep dreaming about the weight of the torch in his hand and the heat of the pyre. He didn't fool himself, it was not his custom; he knew his feelings were born from a ruthless satisfaction at burning that self-righteous bag of pus. Savonarola's death didn't mean the world was safer for 'his kind'. That was idealistic crap, the kind of thinking that get you killed quick, with your guts spilled in a gutter, if not wrapped around your neck. His brethren would never be safe, Savonarola's death change nothing in that regard.  
  
Was it the satisfaction of a well-fulfilled duty? Micheletto fulfill his duty too often to be over-indulgent, if any he almost fucked the whole operation off when that obnoxious man almost croaked in front of his master. His master was warned, that pompous prick wasn't going to break by torture, so when Micheletto informed him he was relenting, his master grabbed his cock and do what a man should do, but if Micheletto had knew that a false signature was what was required he could provide it earlier.  
  
His master... Was a he brother or not? After a long introspection, Micheletto found he didn't care. His place was being there to provide a service, and he did, he spied, and killed for him. To suck cock was no different. Their little dalliance could continue or could stop and that would never make a difference, they would stand together by crime and separated by status. Micheletto shouldn't ask for more, because there was nothing else to give.  
  
His hand scratched his balls, his back arched and he rolled on his cot, ready for a new day.

*~*~*

  
  
Micheletto, for the nonce, was sporting a faint smile when he reported at his master's chamber, as commanded. That was not out of place, his master got rid of an enemy, and celebratory mood was a must. Of course, tempered for the grief over the late Duke of Gandia; Micheletto was no stranger to he set of emotions after the forcibly disappearance a member of the family, one who brought you so much peace that you wanted to cry it from the rooftops, one you should not boast about to help the healing. It will pass, his master was properly steeled against the turmoil, he had saw it that night over the bridge, and each passing day confirmed that he was ready to deal with the consequences of this most unfortunate finding.  
  
He waited for his master, out of his door, his hand on the pommel, his other hand hanging at his side.  
  
Cardinal Borgia passed by his side, stern countenance on the top of full regalia. Micheletto got worried and wondered if his steel resolution was melting under his regrets, his eyes searched his master's eyes but to no avail; there was not a glance of recognition nor a smile of conspiratorial glee. Had his assassin outlived his utility now that the thorns on his side were removed? Micheletto felt his hand creeping toward his armpit, and he didn't even try to stop it. Still, Micheletto girded his loins and followed his master; if this was the end, then it was and there was no other way around, but the sentence should left his lips.

They walked the corridors in silence, the guards didn't noticed Micheletto's presence; so much time he was at the tail of his master that he was almost his shadow. Good times. When Cardinal Borgia made a turn toward His Holiness's quarters Micheletto tried to find a secluded spot to wait for him. There was his explanation, his master was not angry at him, there was something that he was to talk with his father. Breath left his body in slow mouthfuls and his hand slide from his doublet, concern began to drain from his body.

*~*~*

  
  
He was dozing off against the wall when the brisk footsteps echoed through the corridor and worry felt over his shoulders like a mantle; that were not festive footsteps, they sounded like a retreat call. Without missing a beat, Micheletto tailed his master and arranged his stride to his pace. If his master noticed his presence, he made no observation, so they crossed corridors until His Eminence's office. Micheletto waited in a corner while his master sorted papers and sent clerks to distribute them among other cardinals; Micheletto smelled change in the air and that put his nerves on end; he wanted to be happy for his master, but inside he dreaded that he tried to drag his servant to active militar service. Last thing Micheletto wanted now was to parade in front of all Rome draped in red and blinding people haphazardly with his burdensome armor. Still, Micheletto kept his silence and his quiet, right now was not the moment to repeat his plea to be left him behind, on the shadows.  
  
Slowly, people began to leave his master alone. The Vatican was not going to stop by a death or by a minor fix on its hierarchy. His master sat on a chair and passed his hand through his hair; that was hardly the image of a triumphant prince.  
  
"Your Eminence," Micheletto called out. If his presence was not required, he would better get going.  
  
"I'm not eminent anymore," Cesare Borgia barked at him and sprang from his seat, "Don't you notice anything?!"  
  
Micheletto didn't even flinch. "Red robes are misleading."  
  
Cesare tore his pellegrina away with a huff and threw it to his manservant face. The rage in his expression made clear that he despised his servant's insolence, but Micheletto just smiled when the heavy velvety caressed his face and he aroma of his master hit his nose. Rage was good, better than despondency. The garment was promptly folded and placed on a table, with the reverence due to sacred paraments. Then, Micheletto turned to his master and waited, just in case he wanted to keep throwing his clothes toward him. Cesare was shaking, in anger, but he didn't make another movement, his shoulders were stiff like he was trying to move but he was encumbered by a heavy load.  
  
"Go on," the servant encouraged him with soft voice, "they are too heavy to carry them any longer."

"Don't pick them up," was the order when he started to shed out his mantelletta.  
  
Micheletto nodded and tarried in his place, there was something on the air, he couldn't put his finger on it but he couldn't deny its presence either. He was not a man of the church, not even as a child was he a churchgoer, but ecclesiastical clothes meant something and as his master stripped down from them that something became meaningless. He had not a better way to explain what he was attesting. The mantelletta was on his right hand and fell slowly, in a multitude of folds, at his feet. The pectoral cross followed shortly and fell among the red velvet sea. His master didn't rush as he undid every one of the thirty three buttons on the front of his soutane and the reason became evident when he tried to undo the ribbons of the amice: his fingers were shaking.  
  
"Allow me," Micheletto said, ready to remove that little piece of cloth, the only thing that was in his master's way to his freedom.  
  
Cesare gulped, it was a noise too audible in the quiet office, Micheletto noticed then that passing his arms below his master's armpits was not the correct way to do it, but his nimble fingers were deft to unknot the ribbons behind his master's chest and he retreated, almost ashamed of his boldness.  
  
"Here I stand," Cesare said letting the white vestment fell among the red ones. "Stripped down to the barest minimum, no longer a priest nor a cardinal" he stated with a heavy sigh. "Right now, I'm nothing."  
  
"I see different," Micheletto said, picking up the leather trousers and the dark doublet from the chest where Cesare hid them.  
  
Cesare blinked perplexed, but he allowed Micheletto to wrap him in his doublet and to kneel before him and to help him into the trousers. As Micheletto pulled up the tight clothes over his master's thighs he noticed something else was changing, and he was the one who bring it to them even when its essential nature escaped from his grasp.  
  
"What do you see, Micheletto?"  
  
"My master," he said, his fingers skillfully knotting the laces of the codpiece, "and a hopeful prospect."  
  
"A prospect of what?"  
  
"Don't know," Micheletto kept his eyes down, his fingers tying the ribbons of his shirt, "Of whatever my master would like, I think."

  
by [**algrenion**](http://algrenion.tumblr.com/post/25402007759/i-dont-think-ive-ever-drawn-my-otp-as-portrayed)  (tumblr)

   
  
Cesare pressed his lips together as his servant worked to fit his clothes. There was no hurry, no pressing Vatican affairs, just the promise of new future, so Micheletto was careful to dress him to his new path in life.  
  
"Will you follow me, Micheletto?" Cesare asked when his henchman started to close the doublet, "Even if I clad you in metal and make you my captain?"  
  
Micheletto raised his eyes and saw him with intent. "I have but one master, yes?"  
  
"But will you do it?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Cesare tilted his head and approached his lips to those of Micheletto, the assassin felt his heart racing beneath his clothes and passively accepted the strange caress, giving himself to the touch of that soft hands and sure that his master would fuck him over the ashes of his old life. He didn't fool himself, this strange behavior would end as soon as Cesare Borgia regained his feet, but he could enjoy himself for the time being.  
  
They were on celebratory mood after all.


End file.
